


An Oz Christmas Carol

by vanillalime



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Christmas, Community: oz_magi, Fanart, Fanfiction, Gen, Ghosts, Inspired by A Christmas Carol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21781108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillalime/pseuds/vanillalime
Summary: An Oz take on the classic Charles Dickens story.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3
Collections: Oz Magi





	1. Stave I: Leo's Ghost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ozsaur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozsaur/gifts).



> The main characters in this story can be identified in the accompanying graphic, but this is largely an ensemble piece. Orignally posted to Dreamwidth. Written for ozsaur for Oz Magi 2018. The request:
> 
> Pairing/Character(s): Any pairing or Ensemble Cast  
> Keyword/Prompt Phrase: A Christmas Ghost story.  
> Canon/AU/Either: Either  
> Special Requests: Who is haunting who? And why? Maybe there's more than one ghost! Real ghost(s) not metaphorical ghosts. I'm in the mood for a holiday haunting!  
> Story/Art/Either: Either
> 
> All the credit in the world goes to Charles Dickens for writing such a masterpiece to begin with (and I admit I lifted a handful of phrases directly from his text).

  


Leo Glynn was dead. Of that we can be sure.

His violent, bloody demise was just one of many deaths that fell upon the Oswald State Correctional Facility in the year 2003, a period of time with a particularly high body count, even by Oz standards. Nonetheless, Leo’s death was a decidedly memorable one, as for many years he was the prison warden, and that counted for something. His passing was definite and dramatic, the climax of a gripping sequence that found him staggering through the halls of Oz until he eventually reached a gathering for an inexplicable awards ceremony the likes of which Oz had never seen. There, he promptly collapsed. And died.

Dr. Nathan had pronounced it. Tim McManus himself had witnessed it.

Alas, it was an unfortunate development indeed. Certainly for Leo, obviously, but also for Tim, as it marked the beginning of the end of his bleeding-heart optimism as it related to prisoner reform.

That erosion did not happen overnight. No, it took many years. But Leo’s death at the hands of some barely-known and since-forgotten prisoner planted a seed within Tim, which proceeded to take root during the tenure of Leo's replacement, Martin Querns.

Querns' term at Oz was a turbulent one, and correspondingly short-lived. Not long after he had attained the position of warden, the facility suffered a fatal chemical attack that significantly increased that already-sizable 2003 death toll. The prison was closed for an extended period of time, and Querns was held accountable. Ultimately, he was dismissed from the system. 

Meanwhile, a disillusioned Tim received a temporary assignment in another prison, exposing him to alternate approaches of inmate management, using methods that were notably more effective than those used at Oz. When Oz finally re-opened, Tim was tasked to be its new warden, and he was persuaded to bring those approaches with him. 

There would be no more shooting sprees, mass murders, riots, or rape. Drug traffic would be negligible, sexual activity at a minimum. Discipline would rule the day. The correctional officers would either be ethical or unemployed.

Tim did elect to keep his old experimental unit, Em City, in place. Not out of a misguided sense that it was a resounding success, mind you, but because his ego would not allow him to admit that it was a failure. He assigned his best friend, Sean Murphy, with its care, knowing that he could be trusted to keep it from imploding into an embarrassing reminder of dashed hopes.

The years went by, and the old prisoners forgot the old ways while the new prisoners never knew of them. Inmate despair, fear, anger, and boredom flourished in this rigid new atmosphere.

The years went by for Tim, too, as he became obsessed with maintaining order. Rehabilitation was tossed aside in favor of retribution. Ideas and ideology faded into memory as he concentrated on rules, efficiency, budgets, and political gamesmanship.

One Christmas Eve, his mind was preoccupied with such thoughts as he marched through Em City, looking to connect with Sean. Upon reaching the center of the commons area, Tim took note of a small group of inmates decorating an artificial tree with lights and tinsel and simple ornaments.

"Bah!" Tim exclaimed. "What is the meaning of this?"

Star in hand, Ryan O'Reily coolly stared him down. "What do you think? It's a fucking Christmas tree."

"We got permission first," Miguel Alvarez nervously informed him. 

"Tim!" Sean called out, quickly appearing on the scene. "What a surprise to see you down here."

Tim whipped around. "You can’t have a Christmas tree in the middle of Em City. The Muslims will have a fit. Take it down."

With a slight shake of his head, Sean replied, "No, it's alright. I already talked to Arif about it, and he said it was… "

"It’s a fire hazard. Take it down."

"Fire hazard? How? The tree’s made of… "

"Take it down!"

Sean turned to prisoners and shrugged. "Take it down," he quietly instructed them.

Tim turned his back on the tree, oblivious to the multiple middle fingers that were extended in his direction. "Let’s go to your office," he suggested to Sean. "There’s an urgent matter we need to discuss."

Tim proceeded to storm into Sean’s office and abruptly closed the door behind them. 

"What’s this I hear about you extending today’s visiting hours?" Tim asked. "All visitors are supposed to be gone by four o’clock, and it’s almost time."

"Didn’t you hear about the big accident on the highway?" Sean responded. "Traffic was backed up for miles. Now it’s movin’ again, but a bunch of family members are runnin’ late. I figured extending the visiting period by a couple of hours would still give everyone a chance to see their loved ones."

"Bah! Traffic management is not our concern! Visiting hours end at four."

"Well, I think we should be flexible about this, given the extenuating circumstances. Are we just supposed to shut the door in their faces? Some of these folks are comin’ in from halfway across the state."

"Then they should have left their homes earlier to account for any possible delays."

"But it’s Christmas Eve, Tim! About the only holiday cheer some of these prisoners get comes from spendin’ a little time with their families."

Tim narrowed his eyes. "They should have thought of their families before they chose to commit the crimes that sent them here."

Sean rubbed his forehead in exasperation. "How about lettin’em in for our sake then?" he pleaded. "Poet’s sister promised the guards she’d bake an extra fruitcake for them, and Norma Busmalis always shares the baklava she makes for the holidays, and Holly Beecher’s bringin’ her cute little baby with her, and…"

Tim held up his hand. "I don’t care!" he interrupted. "Visiting hours end at four. Period. If any visitors arrive later than that, they’ll just have to turn around and head back home. They can come back for visitors’ day next week."

"It’s been snowin’ pretty hard," Sean quietly remarked in a last-ditch effort. "Maybe they’ll need a place to hunker down."

"I’m sure there’s plenty of vacancies at the ValuLodge in town."

Sean sighed in defeat. "Fine. You’re the boss."

Tim turned on his heel and opened the door to leave. 

"Wait," Sean called out. He cleared his throat and said, "Claire and I are havin’ Christmas dinner at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. We’d love for you to join us."

Tim slowly turned around. "No, thank you," he replied in a clipped voice.

"Are you sure? There’ll be lots of food and drink and friends and family." With a grin, Sean added pointedly, "Claire’s sister is gonna be there."

Tim rolled his eyes.

Sean’s grin disappeared. "It’s been a long time since you stopped by," he said softly.

"And it will be longer still."

"Claire wants you there as much as I do."

"I sincerely doubt that."

"Tiny Tim misses his godfather."

Tim snorted at that. "Only because he doesn’t know any better."

Sean approached Tim and put a hand on his shoulder. "We lead a happy life, Tim. I'd like yours to be happy as well."

Tim shrugged Sean’s hand off. "I’ll be happy after I’ve balanced next month’s budget," he retorted. Then he walked out the door and took off toward his own office, leaving Em City and its miserable occupants behind.

Sitting at his sturdy oak desk, Tim studied spreadsheets late into the night. He stared at the numbers on his computer screen until he was nearly cross-eyed, but eventually he was able to allocate the funds necessary to cover January's expenses. To celebrate, he pulled out a bottle of single malt scotch from the bottom drawer of his desk. He poured two fingers into a shot glass and drained it in one gulp. Then he promptly poured a second helping and did the same. A third effort filled the entire glass.

The alcohol quickly produced a numbing effect that Tim appreciated, and he suddenly felt very tired. It had been a long day. He got up to grab his coat, but his head began to spin. He sat back down, and the objects in his office swam in and out of focus. Rubbing his eyes, Tim leaned forward and dropped his head onto his desk.

He was abruptly awakened by a loud metallic clanking noise, one that echoed throughout his office. Tim blearily looked up from his desktop and squinted at the clock. It was nearly midnight.

Tim wiped his hand over his face and ascribed the noise to the building’s faulty pipes. Everything about Oz was old and half-broken.

As soon as the air had stilled, a rattling noise commenced. Subtle at first, then gradually it grew in strength. Through his haze, Tim realized that it didn’t sound like it was coming from the pipes inside the walls or from the ceiling above. It sounded as though it was slowly coming down the hallway outside his office.

The rattling reached the other side of his door, then stopped. Tim glanced at the doorknob. Yes, he had locked it, as he always did when he worked late.

"Somebody out there?" he slurred.

A low, pitiful moan entered his office from just outside the door.

Tim's heart caught in his throat. "Who is it?"

Another moan, louder than the first, was the only answer. Tim reached into a desk drawer and grabbed the gun that he kept there.

With a trembling hand, he pointed the weapon at the door and called out, "Is this some kind of emergency? Are you hurt?"

Seemingly in response, the contents of the entire room proceeded to shake and rattle, as though Tim’s office was the epicenter of a large earthquake. The gun fell from Tim’s hand as the tremors created a cacophony that pushed his nerves over the edge.

Gripping the edge of his desk, he cried out, "What do you want?"

The vibrations ceased, and the image of former warden Leo Glynn passed through the solid oak door and came to rest in front of Tim’s desk. "Much!" it answered simply.

Tim’s jaw dropped open in surprise. Leo was dead. Tim knew this with certainty. It had been established without doubt at the beginning of this tale.

"Who, or what, are you?" he gulped.

"In life, I was your superior, Leo Glynn," the apparition wailed, confirming Tim’s fears.

But this Leo looked different than the one Tim remembered. His physical being, such as it was, was weighed down in heavy chains and locks, and a look of permanent despair was etched on his gloomy face. This ghostly form was a miserable shadow of the man Tim had known, and that Leo had been fairly unpleasant to begin with.

Tim nervously looked down at his bottle of scotch, wondering how much of the drink he had consumed. Obviously, this unpleasant situation had to be the result of delirium. He picked up his telephone to solicit help.

Leo's spirit took note of his movements. "That will do no good—the line is dead," it gravely informed him. "Besides, who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters?"

This private joke produced the tiniest of smiles on the ghost's face, momentarily tugging at the corners of its mouth before quickly disappearing.

Wringing his hands, Tim muttered to himself, "I need some coffee to sober me up."

"You do not believe in me," observed the spirit.

"I don’t."

"Why not?"

"Nonsensical nightmares are not uncommon in this line of work, especially when facilitated by alcohol," Tim said fretfully. "I've seen a lot of crazy shit in this place. Many of my dreams would turn my hair white, if I still had any."

The light in Tim's office suddenly ceased to exist, plunging the room into complete darkness. The ghost then began to howl, and a faint illumination returned. The brightness of the light proceeded to grow, increasing in proportion to the intensity of the spirit’s cries. As the cries reached a crescendo and the light turned to a blinding glare, Tim was forced to close his eyes and cover his ears. Then the light dimmed and the cries grew soft, only to have the cycle repeat itself, reoccurring over and over until Tim finally shouted in frustration and fear, "Stop! I believe in you!"

The spirit placed its form in the chair across from Tim’s desk and stared at him.

"Why are you here? Why do you trouble me?" Tim asked it in a shaky voice.

"I have been watching you, Tim," the specter replied. "I have watched you make the same mistakes here in Oz that I myself made many years ago, for which I now pay the price."

Upon this remark, Leo’s ghost clutched the chains that enveloped his body and shook them.

"Why do you wear such shackles?" Tim inquired.

"I wear the chain I forged in life," the spirit explained. "I made it link by link, as a consequence of every faulty or unjust decision I made here as warden."

The ghost raised a section of the chain into the air. "This is the result of my cancellation of conjugal visits." Pointing to another segment, it groaned, "And this can be attributed to my ban on cigarettes."

"You had your reasons," Tim stated quietly.

The specter brandished a third coil and continued unabated. "This one was created by the personal grudge I held against Miguel Alvarez that caused me to put him in solitary." 

The spirit then rattled a particularly heavy section of the iron cable. "And this? This here?" it wailed. "It stems from my belief that rape could have a leveling effect in prison."

Tim watched helplessly as the ghost shook his head in regret. "You ran a tight ship, Leo," he commended him.

"And yet, not as tight as the ship you’re running now. The one you’re steering directly into an iceberg."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Your decisions here are not as sound or successful as you think them to be. If you were to pass this instant, the weight and length of your own chain would be heavier and longer than mine," the spirit informed him. "It would be ponderous indeed!"

Tim glanced about him, half expecting to see himself surrounded by many fathoms of iron cable, but he saw nothing.

"But I’ve balance next month’s budget," Tim asserted meekly.

Leo’s ghost let out a loud groan upon hearing this declaration.

"Monetary struggles should not take precedence over the struggles of your fellow man," the spirit told him. "If you do not change your ways, you will someday find yourself in a predicament worse than mine."

Tim felt like he was going to be sick. He was never gong to drink scotch again.

"And now my time here is nearly gone," the vision stated. "My purpose here is to inform you that you might yet have a chance at avoiding my fate."

"You'll provide me with suggestions for more suitable courses of action?" Tim asked hopefully.

"No, you must discover them for yourself."

"Oh," Tim responded, dejected.

"But you will have help," the ghost continued, "in the form of three spirits, each of whom will pay you a call."

Tim was not exactly comforted by this revelation. "I’m going to be haunted by three ghosts?"

"The spirits of three former prisoners, to be exact—inmates who perished the same year I did, back when you still believed in some of the same ideology that allowed Em City to function with such a unique purpose."

"Great," Tim replied, his sarcasm scarcely contained.

The specter stood up from its resting spot. "Do not belittle this opportunity," it warned, "for it presents you with your only chance at redemption!"

Tim bowed his head.

"The first spirit will arrive when the clock strikes one," the ghost told him. "The second will appear at two, and the third at three. Do not waste this gift! Remember for your own sake what has passed between us, and what will pass between you and the other spirits! I implore you, do not continue along the same path that I walked!"

With that, the image of late Leo Glynn floated away and vanished through the closed door of Tim’s office, leaving Tim alone to his own devices.

Tim hesitated for a moment, then rushed toward the door. He opened it wide and peered up and down the hallway. It was deserted.

"Bah," grumbled Tim to himself. He slowly closed the door again, locked it, and listened to his clock strike twelve. He walked back to his desk and tossed his bottle of scotch back into its drawer. Then he strolled over to the soft leather couch that sat in the corner of the room. He lay down on it and promptly passed out.


	2. Stave II: The First of the Three Spirits

Tim awoke at the sound of his clock striking one. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked about the room. No one else was there; not a thing in the room had changed.

Tim smiled weakly as he concluded that the visit from Leo had been only a nightmare. He decided to head home where he could sleep off his overindulgence in the comfort of his own bed.

But as he stood up, a bright light flashed throughout the room. It dimmed, and Tim found himself face to face with the unearthly figure of the late Cyril O'Reily, his features permanently illuminated by a soft, supernatural glow.

The specter grinned and held up his hand. "Hi!"

"Cyril?" Tim gasped.

Alas, Leo’s dire warning had not been a dream after all.

"Sorry I'm a little late. I was distracted by some puppies I saw running through a meadow."

Tim looked the ghostly image up and down. "You are the spirit whose coming was foretold to me?"

Cyril's bright smile faltered, and he furrowed his brow. "I'm not sure what that means."

Tim sighed. Apparently death had not restored Cyril's mental faculties to where they had been before his accident. "Are you a ghost?" he rephrased. "Were you sent here to show me how I should really be running Oz?"

Cyril's smile returned. "Yes!" he answered proudly. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Past!"

Tim frowned. "A ghost of Christmas past? How is that going to help me run Oz in the present?"

Cyril shrugged. "Your past holds many answers. It's up to you to ask the right questions."

Tim stared at the spirit, wondering if Cyril had been far more intelligent than people had given him credit for.

Cyril held out a glowing arm. "Come, walk with me," he instructed.

Tim clasped the arm gently, thinking that the two of them were to take a casual stroll through the interiors of Oz. Instead, there was a great rushing of wind, and they were somehow plunged through the solid walls of his office. Tim groggily shook his head and discovered that they were now in the neighborhood of his old childhood home in Attica, where it appeared to be midday.

They were standing on top of a high snowbank along the edge of a small frozen pond. Down below them was a congregation of young boys, thoroughly bundled up in winter gear, playing hockey. Although Tim wore no outer clothing, he felt no effects from the icy winter air. 

"These are the shadows of things that have been," the spirit explained to him. "They cannot see us or hear us."

Tim grinned broadly at the familiarity of the scene, remembering with great nostalgia his own adventures on this very pond. One boy took a vicious slapshot that sailed through the air, and Tim watched in breathless anticipation as the puck took a fortuitous bounce off the goalie’s glove and rolled inside the net. He clapped his hands and laughed with joy at the sight. He looked back at the goal scorer and realized with pride that the boy was the young shadow of Tim himself.

"Did you see that?" Tim asked Cyril with glee. "What a shot! I used to practice that for hours!"

Cyril pointed at the boy who had scored. "That’s you?"

"Yes!"

Cyril grinned. "Look at how much hair you used to have!" 

Tim responded with a hearty laugh.

Another boy skated up to young Tim and gave him a high-five. "Nice one, Timmy!"

Tim’s smile grew wider. "That’s Sean."

"Murphy?"

Tim nodded.

"You've known each other for a long time, then."

"We’ve been best friends since grade school," Tim proudly declared.

The game below them resumed, and Tim took a closer look at all the boys playing. "Oh, there's Teddy and Freddy, the twins from across the street," he cried, gesturing aimlessly in his enthusiasm. "And that's Hank, their cousin. The kid with the broken glasses playing goalie is Brian. And I see Marty the motormouth over there. Wow! I haven't thought about these people in years."

Another boy, bigger than the others, suddenly appeared along the edge of the pond. He held a hockey stick in one hand and a pair of skates in the other.

"Hey!" the boy called out. "Can I join in?"

Down below, the hockey game came to a standstill, and the group of boys grew quiet.

Tim drew in a quick breath. "That’s Bubba, the neighborhood bully," he explained to Cyril.

Bubba brandished his hockey stick in the air. "I got a new stick for Christmas this morning."

"So what?" grumbled Marty from below. "We all got new sticks for Christmas."

Bubba shuffled in the snow. "I'd really like to try it out."

"How? By hitting someone over the head with it?"

"No!" Bubba retorted defensively. "I just wanna play, is all."

Young Tim turned to the others. "I think we should let him play," he told them.

"I don't," muttered one of the twins. "He's just gonna start a fight." Several of the other boys nodded their heads in agreement.

"It's Christmas!" Tim argued. "Good will toward men, and all that. I think we can trust him."

"I dunno," said Brian, nervously adjusting his glasses. He turned toward Sean. "What do you think?" 

Sean hesitated for a moment before saying, "I think Tim's right. We should let him play. It is Christmas, after all."

Young Tim waved his hand toward Bubba. "Come on! You can be on my team."

Bubba sat down and quickly put his skates on. He glided out onto the ice and good-naturedly patted young Tim on back.

Cyril looked at Tim. "Did he start a fight that day?"

"No," Tim answered with a smile. "As a matter of fact, Bubba became a regular part of our little group of friends. He was even the star of our high school’s hockey team."

"That was a very nice thing you did, letting him play when the others were against it. It took a real leap of faith to trust him."

Tim nodded his head silently.

Cyril held out his arm. "Come. We have more to see."

Tim was again whisked away. When he had regained his senses, he found himself in the living room of an apartment—the apartment he had shared with Ellie after they had first gotten married.

A small tree had been set up in one corner of the room, decorated with bright lights, festive ornaments, and a string of garland made from popcorn and cranberries. A young adult Tim sat on one end of a worn sofa, while Ellie sat on the other. On the floor below them was the discarded wrapping paper from a multitude of opened presents. 

Tim was surrounded by tools and ties, books and bartending supplies, framed photos and a fishing rod. Wrapped loosely around his neck was a wool scarf, an early product of Ellie’s foray into knitting.

Ellie’s lap held a box of chocolates, a bottle of bubble bath, a make-up kit, an obscure brand of perfume, and a novelty coffee mug. They all looked like items that had been purchased at the last minute from the local drugstore. 

Which is exactly what they were.

"Who’s the pretty lady?" Cyril asked.

Tim ran a hand over his face. "My ex-wife," he sighed. "This was our first Christmas together after getting married. I guess you could say that it was a sign of things to come."

"What do you mean?"

Tim just shook his head and motioned for Cyril to listen in on the conversation taking place in front of them.

"See, I got caught up organizing our latest project," Tim’s younger self told Ellie in a rush. "It’s taking a lot of time, but I think it’ll be worth it. I think this art program will be very therapeutic for many of the inmates."

"I’m sure it will," Ellie nodded.

"It’s very innovative, and a lot hinges on its success. Hopefully, it’ll lead to other programs too, like music instruction. Maybe someday, we could host a talent show. Or maybe we could implement a theater program, where the prisoners put on plays."

"That would be wonderful."

"And if these arts-oriented programs go over well, we could expand it into other areas, like sports. I’ve been thinking about holding a basketball tournament, or maybe boxing. That way, the inmates could work out some of their more aggressive tendencies in a controlled environment."

"That makes sense."

"So, anyway," Tim concluded sheepishly, "I’ve just been really busy."

Ellie smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "Maybe you can keep track of all your ideas in the new journal I got for you," she said, with just a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

Tim looked down at the stack of books next to him. "Yeah, it’ll be perfect for that," he mumbled.

Ellie stood up. "Well, it’s almost time to leave for your sister’s house. I need to take my hashbrown casserole out of the oven. I’ve already put your family’s gifts in the trunk of the car."

"Thanks."

"Merry Christmas, Tim."

"Mmmm," Cyril sighed. "I love a good cheesy hashbrown casserole." He then turned toward Tim. "You sure had a lot of great ideas. I remember the boxing tournament. That was a lot of fun."

Tim opened his mouth to remind Cyril of how he had essentially killed Hamid Khan during the boxing tournament, but then he thought better of it. Instead, he simply said, "Some of my ideas were better than others."

"How many of those programs does Oz still have?"

Tim paused for a long moment before answering, "None."

"Oh. You replaced them with new ones?"

"No."

Cyril tilted his head to the side. "That doesn't make sense. Those programs were so important to you, and you were so excited about them. You valued them more than your marriage. But now you don’t have any at all?"

Tim shuffled awkwardly in place. "That’s right."

Cyril stared at him. Tim didn’t return the look.

Finally, the ghost held out his arm. "We have one more stop to make."

Once again, Tim was drawn into a vortex. When he landed this time, it was within the dark, cold halls of Oz's solitary confinement unit.

A new shadow of Tim stood nearby, several years older than the one they had just visited. He was waiting for a guard to unlock one of the cell doors, toying impatiently with a plain white t-shirt in one of his hands.

Tim muttered to Cyril, "You wouldn't believe how many times I’ve been stuck working at Oz on Christmas."

"Christmas in Oz is worse for the prisoners than it is for you," Cyril gently reminded him.

The guard opened the door to the cell, and they all walked inside.

Sitting hunched over on top of a small bed was Chris Keller. He quickly looked up, and his face was full of fear and worry. 

Tim's shadow waved the t-shirt in front of him. "Get up," he instructed. 

Keller immediately did as he was told, revealing in the process that he was wearing a blood-soaked tank top. He pulled off the soiled shirt and exchanged it for the clean one.

With a hard swallow, he asked, "How's Beecher?"

"He just got out of surgery. He's going to be fine."

Keller slumped forward and exhaled heavily, his relief obvious.

"Dr. Nathan figures he'll need about a week to recuperate. Barring any complications, he'll be discharged in time to bring in the New Year."

Keller stood up straight again. "That’s good to know," he said gruffly, and his usual mask slid into place.

"You might be happy to hear that Vern Schillinger survived as well."

Cyril turned to Tim. "I hated that man. He was an awful person. I sure hope you aren’t haunted by his ghost tonight."

Tim’s stomach did at sudden flip upon realizing that possibility.

Meanwhile, Keller responded to the news of Schillinger's health with indifference. "I haven't been particularly worried about ol’ Vern," he muttered.

"Well, you should've been worried," Tim’s shadow retorted. "I’ve talked to ten different people and received ten different versions of what happened in that gym, but most of them included the scenario that you were the one who stuck that knife into Schillinger. If he had died, I would be conducting a much more thorough investigation right now."

Keller just shrugged his shoulders. "A lotta shit went down fast. I doubt that any one really knows exactly what happened."

"Which is why I’m not going to pursue the matter any further. Frankly, it’s not worth it."

Showing no emotion, Keller asked, "Does this mean I’m free to go back to Em City?"

"No," Tim's shadow replied. "I think it would be to everyone’s benefit if you stayed in here and cooled your heels for a few days. Maybe, if you behave yourself, you can make it back to Em City in time to see Beecher released from the infirmary." 

And, with that, he turned to leave. 

Keller cleared his throat and called out, "Hey, McManus." He waited for Tim to turn back around, and then, looking directly at him, he softly said, "Thanks for lettin' me know about Beecher."

Tim nodded his head wearily. "Merry Christmas, Keller." Then he stood there, hesitating, before saying, "I’ll be going back to the infirmary later. I could pass a message along to Beecher for you, if you'd like."

Keller threw his head back in surprise, and he slowly smiled. "Sure," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Tell him I’m lookin’ forward to seeing him back at choir practice."

Tim's shadow stared at Keller in utter bewilderment for a moment, then he laughed and shook his head. They walked out of the cell, and Chris Keller's chuckle followed them.

"I didn’t know Oz had a choir," Cyril remarked in surprise.

"It didn’t."

"Oh," Cyril replied in confusion. He paused before adding, "That Keller was a funny guy."

Tim snorted. "He was also a cold-blooded serial killer."

"He really loved Beecher a lot, though," the spirit told him. "I'm sure he was worried sick about him. It was very thoughtful of you to realize that and to treat him like a real person with feelings, and not just another number. Little things like that mean a lot to the prisoners."

Tim did not respond to the ghost’s observation. Instead, he said, "Didn’t you say that this was our last stop? Shouldn’t we be heading back?"

"Why? Are you anxious to leave your past behind?"

Tim’s face took on a pained expression. "Just trying to stay on schedule." He clutched Cyril’s glowing arm and tugged at it.

Together, they flew through time until they touched down in the hallway outside of Tim’s office in Oz. Tim immediately let go of the spirit’s arm and quickly reached for the doorknob.

"Hold on," Cyril commanded. "Tell me, have you learned anything from my visit?"

Tim’s lips formed a thin line as he looked down at his feet. "Yes. I’ve learned that a lot has changed."

"For better, or for worse?"

Tim looked back at the spirit, and he noticed for the first time how Cyril’s light was fading. "Look, try to see things from my perspective," he implored. "I wish I could go back to the way things were, but you have no idea how difficult my job is, how many responsibilities I have. I can no longer afford the luxuries of idealistic second chances, or time-consuming, starry-eyed projects, or forming personal connections with people who would just as soon stab me in the back as thank me for my efforts."

"One man's luxuries are another man's necessities," Cyril quietly said. He sadly bowed his head, and his ghostly light went out. 

"Bah!" Tim whispered under his breath, but in a decidedly less confident tone than the one he normally used. From inside his office, a clock struck two, and when Tim opened the door, he was greeted by a familiar hearty chuckle, echoing throughout the room.


	3. Stave III: The Second of the Three Spirits

Tim froze at the sight before him. For there, sprawled on Tim's desk, was the gigantic form of the late Chris Keller, a ghostly image that was nearly twice the size of a normal grown man. 

Of course, very few things about Chris Keller had ever been considered normal.

"McManus!" he called out. "Come in, come in! Long time, no see."

Tim meekly entered the room, and immediately noticed that his office had undergone a surprising transformation in his absence. An abundance of various greenery had been hung from ceiling to floor, and waxy ivy leaves and bright red holly berries glistened in a warm light cast by a dozen lit torches. Giant poinsettia plants had been positioned throughout the room, and sprigs of mistletoe dangled from strings in strategic locations.

However, the glory of these decorations paled in comparison to the jolly countenance of Chris Keller, whose sparkling eyes and broad, genial smile created an illumination that no insentient object could match. He wore a deep-cut tank top that exposed a brawny chest and Herculean arms that were even more impressive in death than they had been in life. His feet were bare, but his head was not, as a beautiful holly wreath lay across his brow. 

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," the spirit announced as he spread his arms wide. "Look upon me!"

"Keller!" Tim gasped in awe. "You are so big!"

Keller threw back his head and laughed merrily. With a wink, he exclaimed, "That’s what she said!" Then he laughed some more.

Tim responded unsurely with a timid smile.

After catching his breath, Keller cheerfully inquired, "How did things go with the Ghost of Christmas Past?"

"Fine," Tim answered shortly, his smile disappearing.

"Just 'fine'? Your current standing has no chance of repair with that attitude."

Tim sighed. "Apparently, I need to be running Oz in a manner that is reminiscent of years past."

"Would that be so bad?"

"Perhaps not, but no one seems to understand that many things in Oz have improved since I took over. Violence has decreased dramatically—incidents are at an all-time low. Back in 2003, we had inmates dying at a rate of two or three a week." 

Tim paused to give Keller an accusatory look. "That’s something of which I’m sure you are well aware, given that many of them were allegedly at your hand."

Keller grinned mischievously and shrugged his mammoth shoulders. "Water under the bridge."

"The inmates are far safer now than they were before I became warden. My emphasis on discipline for improper behavior has made Oz a better place. Surely, the prisoners must recognize this and are appreciative of the fact."

"Oh, surely," the spirit repeated mockingly, nodding his head and knocking his wreath slightly askew. "As they surely must also appreciate how things like sex and leniency and extracurricular activities have been replaced by loneliness and fear and boredom."

"That's an inaccurate assessment of the situation," Tim argued.

"Is it?" The ghost rose from the desk and stood tall in front of Tim. "Let us take a stroll through Oz and see what we find."

Keller grabbed a torch and lifted it high in one hand. With the other, he reached up and broke a sprig of mistletoe off from its string. He smiled at Tim and playfully declared, "You never know when a little of this might come in handy."

He stuffed the greenery into his pants pocket. Then he waved his torch in the air above them, and Tim’s festive office disappeared in a blur. When his surroundings came back into focus, he discovered they were standing in Em City’s commons area. Nearby, several inmates were gathered in front of the television monitor, but none of them seemed to be watching what was on the screen.

"Let's listen in," Keller suggested eagerly. "They have no consciousness of us."

Together they moved closer to the men, in time to hear Tobias Beecher say in disgust, "So, anyway, that explains why my new baby granddaughter had to spend her first Christmas morning in the local ValuLodge."

As Beecher spoke, the glow emanating from Keller’s torch brightened significantly. "Jesus, just look at him," he said gleefully.

"Yeah, my sister got turned away, too," Poet grumbled. "She was five minutes late after being stuck in traffic for more’n two hours. McManus can suck my dick. She was bringin’ me a fruitcake and everything."

Tim tried to ignore the peculiar sensation he suddenly felt in the pit of his stomach.

"He also made us take down our Christmas tree," Miguel Alvarez added, "even though Murphy had said it was okay. We had that thing decorated real nice. I didn’t dare say shit, though. I didn’t wanna spend Christmas in the hole."

"He banned Christmas movies this year as well," Agamemnon Busmalis said sadly. "And _Miss Sally's North Pole Recess_ has always been the highlight of every holiday season."

"There's no Christmas books to read, either," Beecher complained bitterly, "because he shut down the library again."

Keller leaned toward Tim, towering over him, and murmured, "He’s so sexy when he’s pissed, don’t cha think?"

Tim was too busy trying to remember why he had banned Christmas movies to answer to the spirit's question.

"I don't care about the library," Busmalis declared suddenly, his voice breaking. "All it does is remind me of Bob."

Silence settled over the group, and Beecher reached over and clasped Busmalis’s hand.

"Aw, fuck," Keller whispered under his breath, and for the first time, his jovial expression faltered.

Tim had to swallow several times before he could breathe properly again.

"This has to be the worst fucking Christmas in the history of Oz," Poet finally spat, "and that's sayin' something."

Keller swung his torch, and the scene before them faded away. The next thing Tim knew, they were in the middle of Oz's kitchen. Several inmates were bustling around, working to prepare food for dinner.

A few feet away, Ryan O'Reily and Chucky Pancamo were talking animatedly to each other, pausing occasionally to bark out orders to those around them.

"Holy shit!" Keller exclaimed. "Look at all that gray hair on Pancamo’s head."

Tim was tempted to mention something about gray hair being preferable to a receding hairline, but then he decided it would be better not to say anything.

"This is fucking bullshit, man," O’Reily was saying. "We have chicken nuggets for dinner at least once a week. I can't believe we're makin'em for Christmas."

"I know, but we don't got no choice," Pancamo insisted. "The order came straight from McManus."

Keller turned to look at Tim. Raising an eyebrow, he asked, "Is that true? Did you really tell them to serve chicken nuggets for Christmas?"

Tim looked down and mumbled about budget constraints and the need to cut corners.

Meanwhile, O'Reily continued to rant. "This situation stinks. I've been workin' this kitchen for God knows how many years, and the food just gets worse'n worse."

Pancamo nodded his head. "Then everyone blames us for it, when it really comes back to fuckin' McManus and his penny-pinchin' ways."

"Well, when everyone starts bitchin' about this, and you know they will, you can be damn sure I'm gonna let them know exactly who's responsible. Someday, there's gonna be a riot over shit like this, and I don't want a target on my back when it all goes down."

"Riot?" Tim gulped. "They can't riot—violence isn't allowed in Oz."

A belly laugh from Keller followed this proclamation. Waving his torch again, they left the scene, but not before Tim overheard Pancamo muttering, "Maybe if we just add some red food coloring to the mashed potatoes..."

Next they arrived at the lobby of an old, run-down motel where a line of people were waiting patiently to check out of their rooms. A gentle snow fell outside, although the grimy picture window at the front of the building obscured the view.

"I think it's just terrible that they wouldn't let us see them," Norma Busmalis was commenting to the others.

"At least we can all head home, now that the roads are clear and the snow has let up," Dr. Jackson said cheerfully. "Can you imagine spending your entire Christmas Day here at the ValuLodge?"

"It would’ve been worth it if I’d just been able to see my Agamemnon," Norma pouted. "Too bad the people who run Oz have no heart."

"Some of them do," Holly Beecher interjected, bouncing a smiling baby against her hip. "Sean Murphy is a total sweetheart. It’s the warden, that Tim McManus, who’s such a grinch."

"You’re right," Dr. Jackson agreed. "I’ve been visiting my brother here for years. Life in Oz has always been rough, but the old days were infinitely better compared to the way it is now. And it all goes back to when McManus became warden."

Signing her receipt, Norma declared, "Oz will be a better place once Tim McManus is no longer around. That day can’t come soon enough."

"I agree," said Holly as she lifted her diaper bag onto her shoulder.

"I do, too," Dr. Jackson sighed. "But I pray that it's a peaceful exit, and not due to an act of violence."

The others paused, contemplating the implications of her remark, while the knot in the pit of Tim’s stomach tightened.

"Sorry," Dr. Jackson said softly. "I’m sure it won’t come to that." She cleared her throat and tried to smile. "By the way, would anyone like to take some fruitcake home with them?"

Hovering over Tim, Keller observed, "You’re as popular with the prisoners’ families as you are with the prisoners themselves." Then he swung his torch once more, and they landed in the family room of a small but cosy house, one that Tim recognized immediately. 

Several children of varying ages were running to and fro, kicking and slipping on discarded Christmas wrappings, playing with new toys or reading new books or modeling new clothes. In the midst of it all, a laughing Sean Murphy sat rocking away in his chair, his feet propped up on a footstool, a glass of eggnog in his hand.

Claire Howell emerged from the adjacent kitchen, clapping her hands. "All right, everybody!" she called out. "It’s time to get this place cleaned up! Our guests will be here in a couple of hours. Let's go!"

With a smile, she reached over and gave Sean’s chair an extra push. "You, too, Pops."

As Sean and all the children promptly responded to Claire’s orders, Keller held up his hand. "Wait a minute," he said. "Wait. A. Fucking. Minute."

Keller shook his head in an attempt to make sense of the scene before him. Then, slowly, he turned and looked at Tim. "What's goin' on? Did Murphy and Howell hook up? Is this their family?"

Tim forced a neutral expression onto his face. "Yeah. The two of them got married years ago."

"No shit! How the fuck did that happen?" 

Tim sighed. He had often asked himself this exact question. "Around the time you..." he waved a hand in the air, "... passed away, Claire discovered that she was pregnant. She kept the baby, and motherhood completely changed her. She finally found something that made her happy. She quit her job, and then, at some point, began dating Sean. They fell in love, got married, and had all these kids."

"Wow, that's amazing," Keller proclaimed.

Tim pursed his lips together. "I guess that's one way to describe it."

"What does that mean?" Keller laughed. "Are you jealous or somethin'?"

"What? No! Why would I be jealous? Claire and I didn’t exactly have the best of times together."

"You misunderstand me. I suspect that any jealousy on your part does not stem from an attraction to Claire."

Tim folded his arms across his chest. "I don’t know what you mean."

"Shhh, they’re talkin’ about you now."

"I told him dinner was at two," Sean was saying to Claire, "but he expressed no interest in comin’. I doubt he’ll be here."

"That’s too bad," Claire replied quietly. She tied off a garbage bag stuffed full with torn wrapping paper. "I had hoped his attitude would have changed by now."

Sean picked up an armful of toys. "Me, too. I even told him that Chloe was going to be here, but it made no difference. It’s a real shame, because I think the two of them would really hit it off."

Claire smiled. "Yeah, my sister would be just the person to give Tim a little perspective on what’s important." 

"He’d be a much happier person if he stopped letting that prison rule his world. He needs to learn that there’s a life outside of Oz."

Claire reached over and rubbed Sean’s arm. "Like the one we’ve got," she murmured.

A small boy rushed up to them. "Are you talking about Uncle Tim?" he asked eagerly. "Is he coming for dinner?"

Sean and Claire exchanged looks, then Sean reached down and ruffled the boy’s hair. "Sorry, Tiny Tim, but it looks like he won’t be able to make it. I’m sure he wishes he could see you, but he just couldn’t fit us into his busy schedule."

Feelings of guilt overwhelmed Tim as he watched the boy’s sweet face fall. "He never visits," Tiny Tim declared sadly. "Everyone else has a godparent who pays special attention to them. Doesn’t he like me?"

Tim quickly covered his face with his hand as Sean and Claire tried to comfort and reassure the boy.

Keller looked down upon Tim in time to see him wipe a tear away. "There may be hope for you yet," he mused. Then he raised his torch high and stated, "My time is nearly up. We need to return to Oz, where we will make one last stop. An important one."

He waved his torch, and they touched down inside one of Em City’s pods. It was late—the lights were off, everything was quiet. Tim took a closer look at the bodies in the bunk before them, and he snorted when he realized whose pod they had landed in. 

Beecher and O’Reily’s. Of course.

Like most of the other inmates in Em City, O'Reily was sound asleep. On the bunk above him, however, lay Beecher, wide awake. And obviously in the midst of pleasuring himself.

"Oh, yeah," groaned the spirit next to Tim, aroused by the spectacle in front of them. 

Tim looked away. He studied various objects in the room and tried to reflect on all the things the ghosts had shown him thus far. But Keller kept making noises and producing little flashes of light that prevented him from thinking about anything other than what was happening in the pod’s top bunk.

After several seconds, Tim decided he’d had enough. "Why are we here?" he asked. "What is the purpose of showing me this?"

"Oh, this has nothin' to do with you," Keller bluntly informed him. "This is for my benefit."

"Bah!" Tim exclaimed. "This is ridiculous! I don't want to see..."

"Quiet!" the spirit interrupted him, waggling his fingers. "This is the best part."

Before them, Beecher reached his climax, and in a soft whisper, a single word slipped out: _"Chrisss."_

An expression of indescribable joy appeared on Keller's face, and the light from his torch grew brighter than ever. "Can you believe it?" he asked. "After all these years, he still thinks of me. Every single time."

Keller shuffled over to edge of the bunk, while Tim successfully fought the impulse to roll his eyes. As Beecher drifted off into a deep, post-ejaculation slumber, the spirit removed from his pants pocket the sprig of mistletoe that he had taken from Tim's office. He silently raised the greenery above Beecher's head, then leaned over and gave him a gentle, ghostly kiss on his lips. 

"Merry Christmas, Toby," he breathed.

Keller stepped back and smiled at Tim. "All right, we can head back now." Then he brandished his torch one last time, and they returned to the hallway outside Tim’s office. 

"So, did you learn anything from my visit?" the spirit asked.

Tim shifted uncomfortably in place. "Maybe I’ve been a little too harsh with a few people," he slowly admitted. "Maybe there are other ways to control unacceptable behavior. Maybe I need to remember the feelings of others when I make some of my decisions."

Keller stared at him intently, and his usual affable countenance was gone. "There ain’t no 'maybe' about it, McManus. You’ve been treatin' people like shit, both friends and foes, and they hate you for it. This hate will come back to haunt you more than any Christmas ghost, unless you change your ways."

"That is easier said than done! Managing Oz effectively requires a bad guy, and that's me."

"Why do you need to be a bad guy in order to manage Oz effectively?"

Tim opened his mouth to respond, then found that he didn’t know quite what to say. He was sure there was a simple answer to the spirit’s question, but for the life of him he couldn’t think of it.

"As a wise man once said, the love you take is equal to the love you make," Keller told him. "That is precisely the explanation for my extraordinary size. I made a lot of love in my lifetime. It was often dangerous and destructive, yes, but it was love nonetheless. How much love is there in your life, McManus?"

The ghost paused to lean down, bringing him to eye level with Tim. "The way it stands now, your afterlife form will have the measurements of an elf."

Tim started to shake, and an ill feeling swept through him. He had to break eye contact with the ghost, lest he be sick over its bare feet.

Keller stood tall again. "Now, I’m afraid you'll have to excuse me," he announced. His merry features returned, and he laughed heartily. "I have a helluva boner I need to tend to."

Then, with a loud _pop,_ the Ghost of Christmas Present was gone. As his stomach roiled, Tim heard a clock strike three from inside his office. He wiped a sweaty palm on his pants leg, then opened the door and stepped inside. There, he faced a dark, deafening silence.


	4. Stave IV: The Last of the Spirits

Tim’s office had undergone another transformation, one that further unnerved him. Gone were the vibrant decorations and bright lights that had accompanied Keller’s visit. Instead of colorful greenery, black fabric draperies hung throughout the space; instead of glowing torches, a handful of candles provided the only illumination. What little color existed in the room came courtesy of a few simple floral wreaths set clumsily in front of his desk.

The banners on them read "Rest in Peace."

Before Tim had an opportunity to reflect on their significance, his attention was drawn to a moving shadow in one corner of the room. Slowly, the shadow took shape and density, and a ghostly figure emerged from within. It was shrouded in a frayed black cloak, the hood of which was drawn over the top of its head, concealing its face.

The ghost inched toward him, like the mist across a desolate moor, gravely, silently, and Tim was overcome with fear. His shaking legs gave way, and he fell to his knees as the gloom and mystery that surrounded the figure enveloped him.

With an intense mental effort, Tim forced himself to breath. Swallowing hard, he managed to whisper, "Would you be the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?"

The hood nodded. A bony hand emerged from the folds of the cloak, and one of its twisted fingers pushed the hood back slightly, revealing the face of Omar White from its solemn depths.

"Omar?" Tim blurted in astonishment. 

The spirit merely confirmed its identity with another nod.

For a fleeting moment, Tim tried to take solace in the fact that at least Vern Schillinger’s spirit had not been tasked with haunting him. But this grim, mute version of Omar was such a stark contrast to the corporeal being that Tim had known… It spooked him far more than any blustery Aryan ever could.

"You are about to show me shadows of things that have not yet happened," Tim surmised. "Is that correct?"

Again, a short nod was the ghost’s only response. Remaining expressionless, Omar held out his cloaked arm and motioned for Tim to stand.

Tim attempted to do so, but his legs trembled to such a degree that he stumbled forward. Omar waited silently for him to recover, and Tim clumsily regained his footing. He found himself wishing for the spirit to say something, anything, that might help put his mind at ease. Never in his life did Tim think that he would be begging Omar White to talk to him.

"Omar!" he exclaimed. "I fear you more than any ghost who has haunted me tonight. Yet, I know your purpose is to do me good, and that you are here to prevent me from continuing on my current path of self-destruction. Please, won’t you speak to me? Won’t you tell me of the places we are about to go, of the scenes we are about to witness?"

But the specter said nothing. He merely pointed a bony finger straight ahead of them.

"I guess not," a somber Tim lamented. "Lead on, then. I imagine that there is still much to see, and the night grows short."

Omar moved away, and Tim followed in his shadow. They were gradually lifted up, and together they floated through time, a dark rain cloud sailing over the turbulent seas below.

Tim’s feet touched ground, and the walls of Oz’s hospital wing sprung up around him. It looked like a war zone. Medical personnel and staff members bustled about, elbow-to-elbow, tending to a multitude of injured prisoners who had been propped up on chairs, tables, or the floor. More than a few of them lay on gurneys. Battered, bruised, and bloodied, the inmates waited patiently for medical treatment. It was eerily quiet, as the inmates spoke sparingly, their low mumblings interrupted occasionally by muffled coughing into oxygen masks.

"What happened?" gasped Tim. 

Omar gestured toward the far wall. There stood a small grouping of armed SORT members, clearly keeping a close watch on the scene before them.

Tim's stomach dropped to the floor. "Oh, no," he cried. "It can’t be. Not a riot. Not in Oz."

Omar turned and stared at him with his cold eyes, and Tim felt them burning holes through his flesh.

"Oh, my God," Tim wailed, gripping his head between his hands. "Look at all these people. Were there any fatalities?" He turned toward the spirit beside him and grasped its cloak. "Tell me, please. Did anyone die?"

The ghost held a solitary finger up in the air. Then it used that finger to slowly point in the direction of a doctor who was deftly stitching a long, deep cut in the arm of Miguel Alvarez. Looking closer, Tim realized that it was Gloria Nathan. And she had tears in her eyes.

Without thinking, Tim walked swiftly toward her, wanting to comfort her. Then he remembered that he was nothing but a future shadow, and his distress grew. 

Omar had stayed close to him, and he again motioned toward Gloria. Standing next to her was Len Lopresti, the correctional officer, who was busily assisting medical personnel with basic first aid tasks. Gloria was talking softy to him, and the spirit tapped the side of its head with a finger, indicating that they should listen in on their conversation. 

"We were lucky," Gloria was saying. 'So, so lucky. It looks like we'll have just the one fatality. This could have been so much worse."

"Lucky is right," Lopresti remarked, with a hint of levity in his voice. He paused to apply an ice pack to Poet's head, then added, "Some people might even say we’re better off now than before." 

At this, a wide smile slithered across Poet's face, although it quickly disappeared.

Gloria stopped what she was doing to look over at Lopresti. Her lip quivered, and she used her coat sleeve to wipe away a tear.

"Oh, hey, I'm sorry," Lopresti said gently. "I forgot that the two of you had been involved at one point."

Tim wiped a hand over his head. "Oh, Jesus. Was it O'Reily? Ryan O'Reily?"

Omar shook his head slightly, then gestured to a corner of the room where Ryan O'Reily sat nursing what appeared to be a broken nose.

"Who else in Oz did she have a relationship with?" Tim wondered aloud before the ghost motioned for him to be quiet.

Gloria sighed as she returned her attention to Alvarez's arm. "That was a long time ago," she said, regaining her composure. "When he was a different person. My tears are for the man he once was."

"How did he die, anyway?"

"Multiple gunshot wounds. We still don't know exactly what happened—when he was shot, or who fired the gun, or how they got it. No one's talking."

"Maybe someone's relative smuggled it in yesterday during their Christmas Eve visit."

Alvarez looked up at Gloria. "You should check the bullets from the body," he quietly said. "See if they match the ones used by SORT or the hacks. Y'know, us prisoners aren’t the only ones who aren't sorry to see him dead." 

"You keep quiet," Lopresti quickly snapped, but Tim caught Gloria hesitating as she exchanged a brief look with Alvarez.

Quickly, Gloria wrapped a bandage around Alvarez's arm. "All right, you can take him to Gen Pop now," she told Lopresti. "And it looks like Poet is good to go, as well."

Lopresti directed Alvarez and Poet out of the room, and the ghost motioned for Tim to follow them from behind. As they walked out, Tim overheard Father Mukada talking quietly with a nurse. "May the Lord have mercy on the poor man’s soul," the priest was saying. "He is certainly going to need it…" 

"Tell me, Omar," Tim pleaded. "I have to know. Who was it? Whose death deserves this degree of pity, and yet prompts rejoicing, too?"

But the ghost gave no reply. Instead, they wordlessly continued their walk behind Lopresti, traveling through a maze of corridors until they reached the prison’s General Population unit. Lopresti unlocked the barred door and motioned for Poet and Alvarez to enter.

"Good luck in there," Lopresti smirked. "Everyone’s gonna be pissed that they're being forced to double up with the idiots from Em City."

However, when Poet and Alvarez walked in, they were greeted not with jeers or hostility, but a hero’s welcome. Celebratory hollering and clapping and waving followed the two inmates as they strutted down the length of the gallery, wide grins on their faces. Lopresti shook his head as he unlocked a cage and gently pushed them inside, where the other inmates welcomed them with fist-bumps, high-fives, and pats on the back.

"Enjoy your Christmas, ladies," Lopresti snickered as he slammed the door hard. Then he proceeded to the other end of the hallway where a small group of COs had assembled, talking animatedly with one another. Lopresti paused as he reached this gathering, and Tim and Omar did the same.

"It’ll be nice not to feel like someone’s breathin’ down my neck every time I clock in," old Joe Mineo was saying.

"Ain’t that the truth," Lopresti interjected. "I don't feel the least bit bad. His memorial service will require some serious acting on my part."

Tim processed these words carefully. "So it was definitely a staff member who died," he quietly deduced, and fear suddenly gripped him hard. "Oh God, it wasn’t Sean, was it?" He turned to Omar. "Please tell me it wasn’t Sean!"

Raising an eyebrow, Omar stared intently at Tim for a long moment before looking back at the COs.

"I’ll give someone twenty bucks," Mineo offered with a grin, "if he’s got the balls to get up and sing _Camptown Races_ in the middle of the service."

As all the officers laughed, Omar gave Tim another meaningful look. 

Tim’s anxiety grew as a vague memory swam into his consciousness, and that feeling was compounded by the fear of a dawning realization.

"Let’s leave," Tim whispered. "I cannot stand to see such cheerfulness associated with someone’s passing. What kind of man could there be whose death elicits such an inappropriate response?"

The ghost then drifted away from the grouping, and Tim followed in its shadow, dreading their next destination. They traveled through Oz, reaching its grim bowels. Omar stopped in front of a nondescript door that had been left slightly ajar. He raised his arm and pointed at the sign on the door. It read "MORGUE."

"No," Tim mumbled, shaking his head in despair. "I would if I could, but I can’t."

Omar gestured yet again, more forcefully this time, and glared at Tim with righteous anger.

"I understand you, but I don’t have the power!" Tim cried in agony. "Please, if there are any people associated with this place who grieve for this man’s death, show them to me. I’m begging you!"

The specter dropped his arm and paused for a moment. Then it opened the folds of its dark robe, spread them wide like wings, and threw them around Tim's body in what could only be described as the most terrifying hug he'd ever received. It lasted only a second before Omar quickly let go, revealing the warm family room of a familiar house.

Claire Howell sat motionless on the edge of the sofa, looking down at her tightly clasped hands. The stillness of the house was broken by the sound of a door softly closing in the adjacent hallway. Claire looked up, and Tim saw that her eyes were red from crying. 

Sean stumbled into the room. He sat down next to Claire and slowly exhaled. "That was the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life."

"How did he take it?"

"About as well as you'd expect," Sean told her. "He's so sensitive, y'know. And it's hard for him to understand why someone would do what they did."

"I wish I could say the same."

Sean gave no response. Claire reached over to squeeze his hand, and Sean held it tight.

"There was a call for you while you were talking to Tiny Tim," Claire said. "They've lifted the blockade. You can head into work now, if you want."

"I probably should."

When Sean made no move to get up, Claire added softly, "I'm sure everyone would understand if you decided to stay home until tomorrow."

Suddenly, Sean buried his face in his hands, and Claire embraced him in a tight hug.

Tim hung his head with a woeful moan. After a moment, he looked back at the spirit beside him, defeat written across his face. "I know that our time together is nearly over. But before this night ends, I must have confirmation, as much as I dread it. Show me, who was killed in the riot?"

The Ghost of the Future tilted his head, exhibiting a hint of sympathy for the first time. Then he spread his cloak wide once more, and they were transported back to Oz, landing inside the cold, stark room that served as its morgue.

A body lay on a metal slab in the center of the room, with a sheet pulled over it, concealing its identity. The specter drew close to it and pointed, while Tim fell back.

"Tell me first, Omar," Tim whispered. "These shadows that you've shown me... are they of things that _will_ happen, or of things that _might_ happen? If I change course, will it alter the scenes we've witnessed, or is it too late?"

The spirit gestured again toward the body, its bony finger protruding stubbornly from the folds of its cloak. 

"The hauntings I've received tonight will make no sense, will serve no purpose, if it's the latter. Surely, these shadows will change if the circumstances that led to them no longer exist?"

The ghost stood motionless.

Tim shook his head. "I'm afraid that I do not have the stomach to remove the sheet!"

Omar stared at him, then slowly moved his finger toward the end of the slab, where the deceased's bare feet lay exposed. A tag had been tied to one of its toes.

Tim crept forward, shaking as he went. With a deep breath, he leaned down over the tag and read the name that was written there: TIM MCMANUS.

"Oh, no," Tim wailed. He collapsed onto his knees.

The ghost pointed from the body to him, and back again.

"No, Omar, no!" 

Tim fell forward and gripped the cold slab for support, lest he drop completely to the hard linoleum floor. He looked back over his shoulder, tears in his eyes, and saw that Omar’s hand was trembling.

"Listen to me, Omar! I am not the same man that I was earlier this evening! The ghosts that have haunted me tonight have shown me the error of my ways. I have learned from them, and I know now that there are other, more effective ways to run this prison. Ways that include kindness and empathy and a support system for those in need. Rehabilitation should take precedence over retribution!"

Omar's ghost slowly began to lose its shape, dissolving into a shadowy black mist floating above the morgue's floor.

Tim turned back around and closed his eyes. He dropped his head, resting it against the edge of the metal slab. "Please assure me that I may change these shadows with an altered life! The Spirits of Christmas will thrive within me as my own Christmas spirit drives my future actions!"

Tim opened his eyes, praying that his heart-felt plea would be heard by sympathetic ears open to reversing his fate. Then he watched in amazement as the lifeless body before him disappeared, the cold slab below his hands morphed into an oak desk, and the sterile linoleum floor beneath his knees transformed into frayed brown carpeting.


	5. Stave V: The End of It

Yes! The desk was his own desk. The room was his own office. And, best of all, the time before him was a blank slate, one that was going to have a different story written upon it as Tim made his amends.

Tim scrambled to his feet, overwhelmed by the opportunities before him, good intentions overflowing his brain. He dried his tears and looked about him. His office appeared the same as it had been before the the first ghostly visit, the one from Leo’s apparition, and yet it was different. The air was electric with Christmas cheer, and it fed into Tim’s wondrous new outlook.

"I don’t know what to do first!" he exclaimed. "I want to give everyone in Oz a merry Christmas! And a happy new year!" Then he let forth with a splendid laugh, one that would rival the Ghost of Christmas Present’s. He quickly realized with regret how foreign it felt, how long it had been since he had laughed properly, or at all, and he vowed hereafter to laugh long, and hard, and often.

Tim took a minute to reflect on some of his recent transgressions, and the momentary shame he felt was extinguished by his eagerness to put things right. He rushed to his door, opened it, and literally skipped down the halls until he reached the staff room. 

At the end of the room stood a sparsely decorated Christmas tree intended to provide some seasonal cheer to the hard-working staff members. Tim scooped it up in his arms and proceeded to awkwardly carry it out of the room, stumbling down more hallways until he reached the gloom of Em City. 

The morning was still early—count had not yet been called. Tim flew by a snoozing Joe Mineo at the control desk, who woke with a start and with fear when he saw who had caught him negligent in his duties. But Tim merely called out, "Enjoy yourself, naps are good for the soul!" and continued on his way to the center of the commons area. There, he plugged in the lights for the tree and watched in glee as the celebrated symbol came to life.

"Ho, ho, ho!" he called out into the silence. "It’s Christmas Day! Time to wake up!"

The confused Mineo took this announcement as a cue and immediately sounded the horn for count.

As the inmates began to stir, Tim walked around in a circle, waving his arms, and again called out, "Ho, ho, ho, merry Christmas!" Then he remembered all who he was talking to and continued with the addendum, "… to the Christians!" Then he pondered the greeting some more and finished it with "… and a merry day in general to everyone else!"

Then he fairly danced out of the room, pausing briefly to instruct the COs to turn the television monitor on to the channel that was running a 24-hour Christmas Day movie marathon. 

In no time at all, Tim was back in his office, where telephone calls were placed, promises were made, and a few bribes were guaranteed.

Tim threw on his coat and hat and jogged down to the parking lot. There he hijacked one of Oz’s vans, and in a few short minutes he arrived at the local ValuLodge. He made his way inside, where he worked quickly with the front desk clerk to determine which of the motel’s guests were relatives of inmates. Calls were placed to their rooms, and before the family members could fully comprehend what was happening, they were being loaded into the van and whisked away to Oz so that they could have immediate and lengthy Christmas visits with their loved ones.

After dropping the group off, Tim left Oz a second time and drove to a wholesale bulk foods warehouse. The store manager was already there, waiting for him. Money changed hands, including the sizable bonus necessary to persuade the poor man to get out of his warm bed so early on this Christmas morning. Then the next several minutes were spent loading the store’s remaining supply of honey-glazed hams and broasted poultry into back of the van. A bulk amount of frozen cheesy hashbrowns was thrown in for good measure. 

Tim returned to Oz, pulled the van up to the kitchen loading dock, and immediately summoned Chucky Pancamo and Ryan O’Reily. When Tim told them to throw out the day’s planned menu of chicken nuggets in favor of a true Christmas dinner, the look of shock on their faces was a thing of beauty that warmed Tim’s heart. He wished them both a very merry Christmas and asked them to pass the sentiment along to the prison population as they served them a bountiful dinner. As Pancamo began unloading the van, Tim took O’Reily aside to quietly inform him that the hashbrowns were a tribute to the memory of his brother, who had a soft spot for them, and O’Reily, choking up, actually shook Tim’s hand.

Then Tim got into his own car and drove home, where the first thing he did was call Suzanne Fitzgerald, and when no one answered, he left a long, detailed voice message pleading with her to return to her old job at Oz, which would include a significant pay raise, as he desperately wanted to resurrect the music and theater programs there, and to possibly include visual arts as well, so if she knew of anyone trained in art therapy to please let him know, and he looked forward to talking to her as soon as she could possibly return the call. And Merry Christmas!

No sooner had Tim hung up his phone than his doorbell rang. There on the steps of his porch stood a slightly shady-looking character who held the object of Tim’s desire in his arms: a Robotoman, the overpriced, in-demand, impossible-to-find toy of the current holiday season. Tim exchanged glad tidings with the man and handed over a significant sum of money without a second thought. 

A quick shower, a brief hunt for his old Christmas tie, the selection of a bottle of wine from his pantry, and Tim was off again. Traffic was light, and he drove across town in record time. Before he knew it, he was turning into a middle-class subdivision filled with modest homes cheerfully decorated for the holidays. He parked his car in front of one of them, turned off the engine, and took a deep breath. Then he got out and walked up to the front door, Robotoman in one hand and bottle of wine in the other. He rang the bell.

Claire opened the door and froze in place.

"Hey," Tim said sheepishly. "I know I’m early, but I couldn’t wait."

Claire stood there and stared at him, her mouth agape, speechless.

Tim cleared his throat awkwardly and smiled at her. "Merry Christmas!" he added.

Claire’s initial shock melted away, and never had there been a happier exchange in greetings. Then Sean was there, and exuberant hugs were given and received from all sides, and the Murphy children came running, with Tiny Tim in the lead, and Tim nearly crushed his namesake in his enthusiasm before remembering to hand him his Christmas gift. 

Tim was the life of a holiday celebration that went late into the evening, telling outrageous jokes and self-deprecating anecdotes and regaling Sean and Claire’s guests with sweet recollections of their courtship. Chloe Howell in particular was captivated by Tim’s charms, and telephone numbers were exchanged when the guests prepared to leave. Long, lingering hugs were given and received once more, and sincere promises of frequent return visits to the family were made and eagerly anticipated.

But, true to the Ghosts’ intentions, Tim’s Christmas cheer did not end when the clock struck midnight. Indeed, he kept his word and worked hard to make Oz a better place. It was never going to be utopia, given the nature of its existence, but he ran it with an open heart, and treated the prisoners as though they were fellow passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. He was recognized for it, and treated accordingly, and no riot brought about his premature death. For the Spirits of Christmas had taught Tim to be a better man and to live every day as though it was Christmas, where the blessings of the day prosper in the hearts of those who remember its True Meaning.

THE END


End file.
